The burden of innocence
by Laukerie
Summary: Some things should just be left on a shelf and not touched. Daryl/Amy, Daryl/Andrea. Rated for language and sex. Some strong images.


Disclaimer: Not mine, not claiming it is.

I've only seen up to season two so I apologise for any incongruencies with the following story-lines!

**The burden of innocence**

When he thinks about his childhood, most of Daryl Dixon's memories are wrapped in the acrid stench of his mother's cigarettes mixed with the pasty smell of old, settled dust. It's a smell he can still taste on his tongue and at the back of his throat and it's one of the few things that can still make him gag - even just the thought of it. Even the ones he knows to be happy memories, like when he and Beth and Mike, his only two friends, would go fishing and he remembers the air to be filled with sunshine, taunts and good-natured cussing – even those moments reek of it. Sticking to everything like cobwebs, that's what that stink does.

Out of the three of them Mike had been the first to go.

There had been no surprises there, really. Darryl had somehow been expecting it with a sense of glum inevitability ever since he'd been old enough to realize just how spectacularly fucking dumb that kid had been: with his bad temper, skinny arms and a mulish need to assert himself in any way possible, from petty thieving to dealing, he'd been an obituary waiting to happen even in the good times. In the end, he had been one of the first to turn and had wound up with a bullet to the head, curtesy of his father, and brains splattered all over his mother's good cutlery set.

Beth had been different.

Growing up where they had hardly left room for sweetness and shyness, but Beth had somehow managed to be a bit of both. She was soft spoken and gentle, with large doe-eyes and soft waves in her hair and Daryl often thought that he would marry her someday. She had hardly been a fairytale character, really, with her coarse language and filthy hands, but whenever he saw her, he couldn't help but think of Snow White: covered in rags and singing about waiting for her prince like in that cartoon that Merle had taken him to see at the open theatre in one of his rare and uncharacteristic brotherly gestures. Merle had gotten bored somewhere along the line of the house cleaning part and had made them leave, but Daryl always remembered the ridiculous hopeful scene at the beginning with the well singing back and the birds landing on Snow White's hand and the prince scaring the living shit out of her. Somehow, Beth had been like that: easily startled but hopeful and kind. She had hardly been helpless though. She had a knack for catching frogs by spearing them with the sharp end of a stick that she's carved herself with her pocket knife. There was something enchanting and motherly in the way she would then roast them on a small bonfire just in case Daryl's folks were too drunk or stupid to remember dinner. He admired her resourcefulness, but somehow, he most looked forward to the moments when she needed some rescuing, as few as those would be. Like, whenever she had to skewer a worm to her fishing hook and would wordlessly hand both her line and bait to him. He would take them with a small smirk but no mockery. There was something about her, something beautiful and pure, like a soft glow that pulled him in and warmed him up and he just couldn't bring himself to spit down on that.

When the world came to an end and Merle insisted they move to Atlanta, Daryl tried to persuade her to go with, but she had a hard-headed family she could not leave and his brother gave him a black eye when he suggested they bring what he considered provision-munching, zombie fodder along so, in the end, she stayed behind. Just before they set off he heard she had taken to selling her body in exchange for food and he'd wondered how long she'd be able to keep that up. Considering that he had seen men kill each other over a can of beans he figured that fucking wasn't much of a priority for anyone anymore and she'd have to find some other strategy to stay alive. He likes to think she's still hiding out in their spot by the pond, making fish hooks out of old nails and cursing when it doesn't work, but he never allows himself to linger on that much.

The first time he sees Amy jump back with a tiny shriek when a toad hops close to where she had been mending one of her shirts, he shakes his head in exasperation but is also painfully reminded of Beth and of the glow. He finds himself watching her after that: studying the gentle way her dainty fingers dance with the needle, and the way she still carefully strips any fatty tissue from her meat, laying it carefully on the side of her plate, as though they could really afford to be picky now. Once, he brings her a squirrel he just shot down, fur and all, just to see what she'd do with it. She doesn't drop it as he had expected, but she thanks him and holds it in her hand away from her body, looking at the gaping entry hole of his arrow where its eye used to be, until her sister takes it from her. He tries not to smirk and fails miserably.

He hardly ever speaks to Amy unless it's absolutely necessary, and when he does he customarily manages to insult her in one way or the other, usually intentionally. He finds a strange sense of satisfaction when someone, usually Andrea, tells him to fuck off and leave her be. _Leave her be._

His mother used to own two crystal figurines that his father or someone else she had been fucking had given her. One had been in the shape of an owl and the other of a rabbit and they had been useless and out of place in their dingy plastic-lined living room but, if he sat in a particular corner and the sun was just right, he could see tiny rainbows reflected against the peeling wallpaper. He was never allowed anywhere near them though. Once, just once, he had managed to get his hands on the rabbit, just long enough to see that one of the ears had been slightly chipped, before his father had snatched it away and thrown a boot at his head. He thinks Merle sold them both after their mother's death to buy booze or God knows what else, but since that time, he had the distinct feeling that whenever something was truly beautiful, then it should be left on a shelf to gather up dust.

That's why he wants to see Amy kill a walker.

Mostly just to see if she can, but in part because, if she managed to do it, she'd finally be taken down from her shelf and lose some of that sheen she still wears from the city. He thinks he'd feel better if he could watch her pull it off because a part of him can't help but study her with the eye of a hunter and what he sees is nothing more than a prey. Preys have no place in this world anymore, not when there are so many predators shuffling around. Still, he's drawn to her in the same chaste way he was drawn to Beth, so he does the only thing he can and stays as far away from her as possible.

Sometimes he catches her sitting apart from the group and he feels the unfamiliar urge of wanting to do something to cheer her up - perhaps leave some present on her sleeping bag or something, like a flower, but he's so attuned to this fucked up world they live in now that the only useful thing he can think of giving her is more meat and that's hardly uplifting. Or maybe it would be, he can hardly tell anymore. One day he miraculously crosses some deer tracks in the woods and follows them for most of the day, completely and utterly enraptured in the hunt. He takes out a couple of walkers along the way before he can manage a good shot on the stag. It takes three arrows for the animal to finally go down and in the end he has to slit its throat because the thing just won't die. He ties it with ropes around his torso, leaving the knots loose so he'll be able to free himself easily in case of bad company, and starts dragging it towards their camp, ignoring the rope-burn and ache in his shoulders. When he finally makes it back, the deer is welcomed grandly by the majority of the dwellers but Amy just stands back with her arms wrapped around herself and a nauseated look on her face. He should have figured she'd be a fucking Bambi lover. He disentangles himself and drops the ties unceremoniously on the dead animal at his feet.

"Don't fucking cry over it," he spits at her. "Motherfucker will keep us going for a week." When she doesn't reply he stalks away trying to ignore the frustration that he's suddenly filled with along with a new certainty:

_She's not going to last long. _

She's made for a world of giggling, first dates and chocolates. Of books and learning and debates on new and upcoming artists where the biggest worry is the deadline for that huge university assignment she's been slaving over. He can quite easily envision the type of life she should have had had the goddamn world not lost its mind: a crappy job straight out of college that she'd climb out of soon, meeting her future husband through common friends, married by twenty-eight, pregnant by thirty, posting glossy smiling faces on Facebook to document each step of the way. She'd be happy – she looks like that sort of person.

This life of blood and grime and constant fear just doesn't fit around her and he can't make it.

This is maybe why when she finally gets bit and lies dying in her sister's arms he's eager for her to bleed out - one less fucking liability to worry about. But he's also painfully aware of the ache, somewhere in his stomach, that signals the dimming of some of the last shards of hope he had left. He wants to crack her skull in before she turns so he won't have to see her with those glossed over, vacant grey eyes wide with animalistic hunger, but Andrea has other plans and he has to watch her lifeless form start to move and reach up, almost blindly, to devour her sister. When he sees the bullet burst her head open he walks away.

A couple of days later Andrea unzips his tent and lets herself in and, while it pisses him right off, he lets her. She's quiet for a long time and he doesn't want to be the one to speak first so he waits.

"You liked her, I know you did." She finally says. He's still sprawled out over his sleeping bag and, whilst he does pull himself up slightly, he finds no reason to sit up all the way, so he doesn't.

"Nothing much left of her to like anymore." He knows it's unkind but doesn't care.

"Oh, don't give me your bullshit. I saw the way you looked at her – you brought her food like a fucking cat brings dead rats on the welcome mat for its owners to find. All proud and everything."

"Maybe you preferred I left you two to starve?!" He starts to lose his patience, "You'd be fucking dead ten times over if it wasn't for me." He's aware that his tone is rising dangerously but he's beyond worrying anymore. "Goddamn useless is what you two are." He pauses briefly and adds, "Were".

"Shut up." Her voice is suddenly quiet and it catches him off guard. "I didn't come here to fight."

"Well, what the hell did you come for, then?"

She breathes in deeply, "Did you ever touch her?"

"The hell, lady?!" He splutters, "where do you get off coming here…"

She interrupts before he can carry on.

"Just tell me, please." The way she says it knocks the rage out of his oncoming tirade and he's suddenly somber.

"No, of course not."

She nods. "I didn't think so, but I just had to make sure." Before he can ask "why", her hands move up and start to unbutton her blouse. They're swift, calm, and he can't help but remember Amy's fingers as they made the needle dance while she mended.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He hasn't moved an inch, paralyzed by shock while his eyes move down to her bra, white and slightly stained, now visible from her open shirt.

"Just something I need." She moves closer slowly, judging his reactions like a stalking lion, her blonde hair falling messily over her eyes, before straddling him when no discernible protest was made. She unbuttons her jeans and then, when he still doesn't move, starts to unbutton his.

"I don't have anything…" his voice croaks, sticking to the back of his throat.

"Hardly matters anymore, does it?" She mutters while sitting up and pulling her jeans and panties off in one single motion and moving back to straddle him. "Rate we're going we'll all be dead by next week."

"Speak for yourself." He has just enough time to mumble before she bends down to kiss him.

His hands move up her thighs, feeling tiny bumps on the surface of her dry skin. Moisturizing hasn't been their concern for a while, and neither has shaving, but he doesn't care and doesn't get the chance to touch her as much as he wants to anyway because she's already stroking him and lifting herself up. When she starts to push him inside her he can feel that she's not wet at all and wants to stop her at least to spit on the rest of his shaft, but before he can she just drops down and starts to ride him roughly. He's uncomfortable, his cock is chafing against her skin, the plastic from the sleeping bag is sticking to his back and a stone from outside keeps on digging into his shoulder but he lets her move over him without saying anything. When she bends down to kiss him, it's messy and needy, all open mouths and tongues and teeth clicking together and, at one point, she bites his bottom lip hard enough to almost draw blood. He pulls back, pushing her away forcefully, and that's when he realizes that she's started crying. She grinds harder, seemingly, somehow, to be drawing closer to her climax and, desperate not to lose his erection, he focuses on her breasts, moving up and down just above his face. Finally a strangled sob leaves her and she goes rigid, stilling suddenly, before collapsing on top of him and burying her face in his neck.

His hands hover over her shuddering back, not daring to touch her. When she pulls back she's wiping her cheeks quickly although she doesn't seem embarrassed by what just happened.

"Sorry about that." She mumbles, "did you cum?"

He shakes his head while looking at her and, when she moves to touch him again he holds up his hands. "It doesn't matter." He starts looking around for something to clean himself off with and settles for one of his dirty t-shirts, because, even though he didn't come, she still made a mess.

"You sure?"

When he nods she pauses only a second before starting to get dressed, pulling her pants back on and buttoning her shirt up until she's presentable again. She doesn't seem to be in a hurry and when she's finally ready to leave, she just murmurs "Thanks" before unzipping the tent and letting herself out.

He lays still for a while after she's gone, breathing in the smell of sex - of her - mixed with the usual earthy mildew of his tent. This he knows: this feeling of fucked-up-ness, sorrow and emptiness. This is what he and the world are made of. In this – on this - he can find some sense. A part of him though – a small, impractical and often ignored part – still inexplicably wishes there could be something shiny and untouchable somewhere in the corner that could last long enough to gather some dust.

-Fin

Reviews are always appreciated. You know this!


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